


baring my soul

by orphan_account



Category: Original Work
Genre: Freeform, Gen, prose, undertones of certain characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:39:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8863096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: writing makes me happy, i don't know what else to say. sometimes i can't make art, and sometimes i can't do my homework, or get out of bed or eat or go to jazz rehearsal or message back or take a showeri can write. ill write when im not supposed to, or when i have a final the next day and it's 11 and im laid in bed with my laptop, and sometimes it's good and more often than not it's horribly horribly bad and i make errors and i forget to punctuateand i never finish what i startand this is for what i have started and never finished, because however hard to understand or unarticulate my writing is, it deserves to exist outside my google docs graveyard, whether or not any of it is widely read





	1. oh, it's happening

Your hands connect in the kind of way two people might place the first cigarette between their lips. Afraid, curious. She looks up and you both know. Give it a few months, give it a few years, and oh boy will you regret. Regret like you’ve never regretted before, except maybe something you did when you were very young. 

Now that you think about it, you had, as a child, touched hands, or placed your head on each other’s chests, even slept in the same bed, as a child. You are not a child anymore, and this is not an age at which you need a comfort doll, but just like walking into the bedroom you slept in through childhood, you stand in the doorway to a world you had turned away from long ago in the favor of much more professional, progressive lands, and it hurts. The loss of a childhood friend, the loss of a pet, maybe the loss of a parent? Maybe too close for comfort.

And with something as simple as slipping your fingers into hers, you are falling into sweet, puerile dreamland. Somewhere a little faded, where the hallways you walk through every day for the next 15 years still make you anxious, and you jump at the sound of the voice you hear almost every day for the next 18. Somewhere your tea in the morning stayed hot, your plants always watered. She asks if everything’s alright. “I might have been better.”

It’s a bit too dramatic, you know, but it doesn’t read that way on her face. Maybe it wasn’t as bad. A casual glance, and you find the courage to turn the little mental key that unlocks your hands, quick, smooth down your jacket, take in a deep breath of air, reinflate. Start cranking out the weak assurances, rise from your seat. Go through all the motions of a perfectly stable adult, with perfectly stable emotions, perfectly stable childhood that did not just flash before your eyes like a conscious fever dream.


	2. saoirse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one...definitely happened while i was listening to danger days.

They were simple words, but they felt like song. Then again, every word that came out of her mouth since our loud reunion felt like song. Like something that needed to be recorded, documented, poetry engraved on sugar pills for you to down as vehemently as an addict. Sweetarts from your sweetheart with the acrid undertones of noble bloodshed and gunsmoke. And the smile, the burning sun, soft and bright and new-feeling even after the fiftieth split lip or the countless tears tasted of the cheeks of the grateful orphan. 

I wondered if she had ever seen God. I wondered their relation, above all else. If it was truly the light of heaven that kept the eyes springtime or the hands turning a slice of bread to a bakery, a bullet in a lonely gun to a militia. I wondered very quietly and secretively what the row of stone crosses back in some small town I couldn’t even remember the name of would think if they saw my new Christ, scarred palms and all, sacrificial lamb to the horrors of industrialized Americana.

And sacrificial lamb she was. Perfect, I knew that. Abrasive and eyes soft as a baby bird, calloused and sleepless and wild as anything. I meet her all over again as this weathered spirit of innocent, loose cannon youth, childish splendour in neon lights and the dirt of deteriorating society. A little rough around the edges, a few new scars and freckles, but so much the same. Speaks her mind through gunfire. Loves with her entire soul, screams and claws her way around whatever stand ebtween herself and what she wants.

 

[footnote] ^^^^^too blatant, metaphorical christ needs to be more subtle


	3. he ruined my dream journal!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> do not be deceived by the title i remember crying while writing this one. it's a wild ride, like i could help it

I don’t know her, i mean i don’t know her, but in the dream she was someone i had talked to and someone i kind of liked but wasn’t close with at all. I can’t see a face, but i feel like she was tall, kind of soft spoken, with longish hair. We were at my school, i know exactly where, and there were these things, these creatures that were lanky and kind of like the thing in the enigma of amigara fault. Im sure that’s where my mind got them from. I don’t know what the plan was or who was in charge of this, but they were in the school and we had to kill them. I dont think people were really taking it seriously. They paired us up, and gave us a specific assignment - for each pair of us there was one of them. She was my partner, she was the only one there that I was familiar with and so we were together. I remember we didn’t even have weapons, but I guess I had brought my knife by some miracle and so that’s what we had. 

I remember we stepped out there door and it was right there, and it looked at us with its misshapen, gaping mouth and started skittering towards us and i stab it and it runs so fast we can’t even tell the direction it went in. We get separated in the midst of all these other people either trying to find their friends and escape or find their own assignment and I dont think anything of it, she may just be trying to get out. I don’t know what I want to do. I kind of wander. 

I go down a hallway and I see her - she’s found a weapon somewhere, and she’s winning a fight against one of them, not ours. It eventually falls, and she turns to look at me, probably in triumph, and she lets her guard down and I see it. Right behind her, and it’s ours, and it’s in the shadows but right on top of her, and I yell to her but she’s not fast enough, and it’s wrapping around her and making these jerking motions I can’t see the mouth but i think it’s eating her, and she’s yelling save me save me and i fumble around in my pockets for my knife because I had it put away for some dumb reason, and take it out and run towards her, and start stabbing this thing with everything I have and stabbing at the arms so it’ll let go and at the throat and I don’t remember what was happening then but i remember having this crushing sense of just hatred towards myself for letting this happen and being the reason she was going to die, this person i hardly knew but asked me to help and i wasnt fast enough or strong enough. 

They made a big deal over it, in the school. Everyone was really sad and i was loosing it completely but I remember asking someone “they really make such a big deal every time someone is killed here?” and they point to the window 

“No. just her.”

Out that window goes all the way don to the courtyard, its like a square they cut out of the entire building, and there’s windows on all sides. Its crazy, because I’ve looked down there before, wondered if you would die if you fell all that way from say, the third floor. They have the windows made so you can’t open them enough to get through, anyways.

I look out the window and there’s bodies, maybe half a dozen, all jumped. There’s someone who must have ht something on the way down, and it knocked his arm clean off from the wrist, and it’s lying on the awning to the lunchroom, and i swear it twitches. Theres a small gravestone I never noticed before, and I can read it from that distance, it’s three people, all killed while working on an “art project”. All these people were left here, weren’t even cared about. And the one that i blame myself for - they make a big deal out of it. Its like they do it to terrorize me, even more than i already am terrorizing myself. 

I wake up a few times, all wondering whether or not I dreamed it. Days are blurry. I feel like a ghost. She’s still dead. When I finally did wake up it took a very long time to realize it was all a dream.

“If you are watching the person die, this person may represent hopes or desires we wish to have or incorporate in our lives.” “Are there similar aspects within you that were also in the dead person.”

She was pure, I think. Everyone adored her, she was a literal angel, I think. She didn’t do anything wrong, and I was the one responsible for her death.


	4. hate you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> major major warning for elements of sexual abuse, this is the most painful. this is not about anyone real. it helped me deal with some intense emotions in regards to a certain character.

“I hate you” sticks in your throat. It isn’t that you don’t want to say it, or perhaps that you do not believe it enough to go through with the articulation. 

You can feel it, feel the truth, how it lives in your throat, lives in your mind, lives in your heart. Runs through your impure blood, adulterated skin. Your body: a cesspool of singular emotion. The voice, the perfume, the grazing of nails against your skin, all new kindling to the fire. Friction and flammable alcohol and all of those terrible little things that send everything under your skin blazing up, consuming all that will keep it alive. Perhaps you keep your mouth shut in fear that all that would come spilling out would be hellfire.

The skin on your chest boils with that touch, the tongues of flame rising out to meet those fingers but flickering out at the contact.

“I hate you.” starts to make it difficult to breathe. You long for it, think of it as a comfort to simply let it free. “I hate you” is in the pit of your stomach, the despicable seed left inside you that you didn’t want planted, letting loose vines that run up your lungs and weave through your ribs, up your trachea, lodging itself into your mouth and choking you with every moment you let it remain fermenting.

She makes you sick. Makes you want to rip your hand from it’s shackle, plunge your hand deep in your mouth, and pull out what makes you like this, use it to strangle her. That would surely alleviate this sickness. But you know, just as well as you know of your hatred, that you must also have patience. 

You lasted this long, what’s a little more?


End file.
